


do the twist

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Mystery Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: the title's a pun you'll get it later





	do the twist

Listen, you didn’t exactly plan for this happening. Your after-college plans didn’t involve traveling to some weird small town in Oregon, with these two guys you were friends with in high school and their odd hillbilly friend.

But here you are, in some weird small town in Oregon, with these two guys you were friends with in high school and their odd hillybilly friend, booking it through the forest away from a herd of minotaurs—

“ _Manotaurs._ ”

“Can it and keep runnin’, Poindexter!”

Your third companion shrieks in a solid B flat.

Above the constant rumbling gallop of half-man, half-horse hooves, you manage to catch Stanley’s yell of “This way!” as he veers to the right, Stanford and Fiddleford close behind. Following the three men, you narrowly duck out of the way of a Manotaur’s (very large) hand trying to grab the tail of your lab-coat. The herd screeches to a halt at the edge of a clearing in the woods, trotting into the tree-made circle.

“I don’t see ‘em, Boss.”

“Keep lookin’ then! They can’t have gone far— I can _smell_ ‘em.”

Head Manotaur of the group— Pituitaur, if you remember correctly— sniff-sniff-sniffs at the air pointedly, even if he was facing the wrong direction of the four of you hiding behind a four-person-sized bush at his eight o’clock.

“Ohhh, what’re we gonna do? We’re stuck out here ’til they give up on us ’n head back to their Man Cave,” Fiddleford hisses as he worries the hem of his coat.

“It’s alright, Fiddleford, we’ll figure something ou—“  
“Nah, we’re gonna die out here Fidds. Duh.”

Stanford glares at Stanley for that, and the latter brother shrugs.

“What? Just tellin’ it like it is.”

Stanford— or Ford, as he’s told you to nickname him multiple times with the same polite (and very sweet) smile— pushes his glasses up his nose, a tell-tale sign that he’s deep in thought.

“Manotaurs are extremely cantankerous and aggressive; we would have a slim chance of winning a fight with them,” Ford muses.

“You kiddin’? I bet I could take one down,” Stan gloats.

As if on cue, one of them punches something and fells a large pine tree.

“I changed my mind.”

“So we need to distract them,” you chime in, catching the attention of all three men. You meet Ford’s eye, and your brows furrow in unison. “But how?”

A beat passes. Stan slouches, picking out a bag of jerky from his knapsack and tearing into a piece.

“Wait— Stan, give me one.”

You take the bag instead.

“What the— Wait–”  
Scrambling to your feet, you pop up over the edge of the bush, jerky bag in hand. Ford sputters in surprise as you stand, staring up at you incredulously.

“What are you doing?!”

“HEY!”

All eight Manotaurs whip around to face you, nostrils flaring.

Aaaand there goes your confidence. So much for impressing Ford– and, uh, Stan and Fiddleford, of course.

“You manly, uh, bull-men want some jerky?”

A shake of the bag catches their attention— their various burly faces light up at the sight of it.

“Fetch!”

With all your might you toss the bag in a wide arc over their heads, and as soon as it hits the ground they’re tackling each other to grab it.

“That manly jerky is _mine_!”

“Not if I get it first, Chutzpar!”

You look down at a horrified Fiddleford, wide-eyed Stan, and Ford, who’s staring at you in awe from behind his big ol’ glasses. Despite how you feel your cheeks burn pink, you nod your head forward toward the path.

“Run!”

Muffled by the ensuing fight for jerky, the four of you escape into the woods, running at full speed towards Ford’s house and not stopping til the shingles on his roof are in sight. The four of you collapse on his patio, panting heavily, and Fiddleford takes a hankerchief out of his pocket to dab at his brow.

“That… was one way to take… take care of that,” Stan wheezes, standing with his hands on his knees. His typically carefully-gelled hair, loose from the wind and the running, makes him actually look his age for once.

“I have to say… That was… Very clever.” Ford sucks in a deep breath and pulls off his jacket, tossing it over the railing. You can’t help but admire for at least a few seconds— something about button-ups with rolled up sleeves is really… something.

Ford meets your eye and you nervously look down at your feet. Caught in the act.

“I admire your quick thinking back there. If I’d know Stanley had a bag of jerky on him… we could have avoided all that mess.” He looks to Stan and arches a brow.

Stan rolls his eyes. “C’mon. That was s’posed to be my snack, not bait for those weirdos.”

He attempts to push his hair back to its suave slick, but the wind fluffed it up— now he looks even more like Ford.

“At least they really saved our skins back there, right y’all?” Fiddleford grins at you, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “Thank you for that. I dunno how we would’a gotten outta that pickle.”

Ford nods, and it’s at that point you notice he’s smiling at you in admiration as Fiddleford speaks.

“Very apt point. Their quick thinking helped us out there, and for that, I thank you.”

Ford goes to stand up— he immediately yelps in pain and falls back against the steps to his house. Stan and Fiddleford rush to either side and help hoist him up to his feet— well, foot. He rests heavily on his left side, his right foot dragging along the dirt.

“I’m fine, Stanley, really–”

“Are not. Here, we’ll hold him up, you take a look at it.”

He nods and you jump into action, crouching at Ford’s feet and carefully rolling his trouser leg up. Ford stammers in an attempt at protest, but you look up at him with a reassuring smile.

“It’s alright, Ford. Let me see it and we can figure out how to fix it.”

He calms at that, but he watches you carefully as you examine his ankle— swollen, a bit red and scratched from running through various brush, but not broken.

“You’ve only twisted it, I think. When did this happen, Ford?”

He stays silent until Stan nudges him in the ribs.

“Ow, ow, okay— I fell. Simple. When we were headed to the Manotaurs’ cave and separated so we could approach from different directions to avoid the guards, I unfortunately took a more— slippery path than you all did. I fell down the mountain a short ways and landed on my ankle… badly.”

“But Ford… we _ran_ all the way back here. Weren’t you in pain?” You stand up and try to meet his downcast eye.

“Oh, well— Undoubtedly. But we were in an emergency, so I had to— ah— man up, I suppose. No pun intended.”

He laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. Watching him held up between his brother and his colleague, you finally notice how tired Ford looks. Even after running on his injury and dealing with the Manotaurs, you know from occasionally crashing on his couch that Ford doesn’t emerge from the basement until at least 6 A.M. some nights, sweat trickling down his temples and dark smears on his cheeks. This poor guy works so hard, you can see a streak of grey in his hair… and he’s nowhere near that age yet.

You soften, shaking your head at him.

“Ford… c’mon. Let’s get you upstairs and you can rest—“

Ford opens his mouth to argue but you push a finger to his lips. Yeah, sure, both of you go beet red at your sudden forward move, but it effectively shuts him up.

“— Nope. You. Bed. Now. Stan?”

“Got it.”

In one fluid motion, Stan scoops Ford into his arms and marches towards the house. You can hear Ford’s shouts of annoyance well after Stan starts up the stairs to his room, and you share a glance with Fiddleford.

“Typical Ford.”

“Yup. If I had a dime for the amount’a times I’ve found ‘im with some sorta injury while he’s working, I could buy Gravity Falls itself.”

You both head back into Ford’s house and Fiddleford gathers his belongings up, calling over his shoulder that he’s headed home to get some rest of his own. Waving him out the door, you click it shut and head to the kitchen to make something warm and relatively comforting for Ford. And an ice pack. He’ll need that.

Stan comes back downstairs and grins at you, pointing his thumb upstairs.

“Sixer’s been practically tied down so he doesn’t try anythin’. Doctor’s orders, I told him. And that you’d probably be real mad if he tried to get up— that made him stop.”

You laugh, stirring Ford’s coffee. “Doctor’s orders, uh-huh. If he tries to get up and take a second stab at the Manotaurs I’m dragging him back here by his sixth finger.”

Stan snorts, sitting at the kitchen table. You feel him watching you as you make yourself a drink, but he rejects your offer to get him a coffee. He glances at Ford’s mug on the countertop and smiles at you, surprisingly genuine.

“… What?” You turn back to the open drawer you’re searching through for another spoon.

“You care about him a lot, huh? Ford, I mean.”

You freeze.

“I-I’ve known you guys since high school, we practically grew up together,” you stammer, stirring your drink absentmindedly. “You and I have been friends for ages, and I’ve always liked hanging out with Ford, and since he asked me to help him with his studies out here I was happy to oblige, I lo—LIKE seeing him in his element out there, excited and scribbling away in his little red books, running around like an idiot in the forest after giant fruit bats and gnomes and—“

“I think the sugar’s been stirred in enough, eh?”

You look down to find a small whirlpool in your mug, several splashes of liquid on the counter, and the teaspoon spinning around the rim of the cup from the momentum. Pressing your lips together, you take a paper towel and wipe up your mess.

“I know, y’know.”

You stay quiet, embarrassed.

“Ford’s always liked hangin’ out wit’cha. I mean, I do too, but… Ford’s weird. To say the least.”

He grins at you as you sit across from him, mug in hand.

“I could tell both of ya had somethin’ particular. Somethin’ that wasn’t just working together and goin’ into the woods and findin’ weird shit. He’s always starin’ at you funny.”

“Really?”

“I can’t believe you’ve not noticed it.” Stan shakes his head, exasperated. “He gets all mushy when you’re around. Looks at you like you put all’a these weird things on earth just for him to find.”

You stare him down in shock. Stan laughs, leaning back in his chair and nodding at Ford’s mug, still steaming.

“You should go give him that, y’know. He’ll be real happy to see you.”

Abandoning your own drink, you grab Ford’s instead, along with the ice pack, and head towards the stairs. Stan calls your name before you leave and you turn to face him, tilting your head in question.

“Be nice to him, alright? I know I mess with him all the time but… y’know. He’s family.”

You smile warmly at Stan, nodding.

“I getcha. I will.”

He returns your grin and shoos you off, reaching across the table and stealing your cup. Carefully balancing Ford’s coffee and the cold pack, you head up the stairs towards Ford’s room and manage to knock on the door with the tip of your shoe.

There’s no answer, three knocks later, so you manage to open the door (with the _very cold _ice-pack under your arm) to find… A sleeping Ford, ankle propped up above a stack of pillows, his glasses askew on his nose and mouth slightly open, mid-snore.__

__You don’t have the strength for this sort of image right now._ _

__Putting the mug down on his desk, you tiptoe across the room and find an old black t-shirt, wrapping it around the ice-pack and carefully draping it across the more swollen part of his ankle. With any luck the sharp bite of the cold wrapped in the shirt won’t wake him up, you think as you go to leave–_ _

__Something grabs your hand. Another hand, not something ominous. Though it’s Ford’s hand that stretches out and takes yours, stopping you in your tracks._ _

__“S–Stan? What… What happened…?”_ _

__You kneel at Ford’s side as he slowly comes to, rubbing his eyes and fixing his glasses. Something shifts under you and you realize you’re sitting on top of his signature trench-coat, removed and abandoned on the floor._ _

__“It’s me, Ford.”_ _

__He blinks once, twice, then flinches in surprise._ _

__“Oh, oh– It’s… Hello.”_ _

__“Hi, sleepy.”_ _

__Ford’s face, illuminated by the sinking sunset outside, tints pink._ _

__“I must’ve fallen asleep for a short moment…”_ _

__“You need it, Ford.” You realize his hand is still intertwined with yours and gently rub your thumb over his. “We’ve had a long day.”_ _

__“Mm… I suppose we have.” Ford looks down at your hands and his cheeks deepen in color, but he doesn’t move away. He still looks exhausted, but significantly less so than earlier that day. Dark half-moons remain stamped under his eyes and his hair has lost some of its fluff, but he seems to have perked up a bit since fitting in a twenty-minute nap– and from your sudden appearance._ _

__… Maybe what Stan told you really did have some truth to it._ _

__“How are you feeling?”_ _

__“I’ve been better, but my ankle hurts significantly less now,” Ford answers. “Thank you, by the way. I didn’t realize… how physically exhausted I was after today’s events. I was fully ready to go back out to find the cave again–”_ _

__“I figured you would,” you chuckle, and Ford looks to the ceiling, embarrassed._ _

__“— But you were right. I’ve been working… A lot. I suppose I needed someone else to— to look after me.”_ _

__You catch his eye and smile bashfully at him._ _

__“I’m… I’m happy to help. Least I could do.”_ _

__“It still means a lot.”_ _

__Ford yawns, arching his back off the bed in his stretch, and blinks lazily at you. Your stern scientist friend, replaced by a sleepy, soft Ford, his fingers slowly creeping to lace between yours. You readjust your knees on the floor to sit more comfortably at his side, too nervous to ask if you could share some bed space._ _

__“I… I’m not sure… Ah, hm.”_ _

__You lean forward in question but it seems to make him more nervous, his stammering increasing tenfold._ _

__“I… I really appreciate you looking after me today. Sometimes I forget to do that for myself.”_ _

__You nod, knowing full well that he doesn’t sleep for days on end._ _

__“I’m glad you’re here,” Ford blurts out. “With– with me. I… I enjoy your company… a lot.”_ _

__“I enjoy yours too, Ford.” You rest your head against the mattress, taking a chance in your free hand reaching up to comb through his hair. “A lot.”_ _

__He beams at you, sighing contently at your touch._ _

__“So the Manotaurs… They can wait til tomorrow, right?”_ _

__“Mm… Yes.”_ _

__Ford hesitates for a moment before raising your intertwined hands up to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. Your face feels hot, but you smile at the gesture._ _

__“We can feed them more of Stanley’s jerky another day, I suppose.”_ _

__“In the name of science.”_ _

__Ford yawns again, carefully taking his glasses off and placing them next to his (forgotten) cup of coffee. “Naturally.”_ _

__He falls asleep again soon after that, thoroughly exhausted and comforted by your fingers threading through his hair. Lacking the heart to detach from him and feeling oddly comfortable sitting on his coat on the floor, you stay, eventually dropping the hand in his hair to his cheek when you fall asleep too._ _

__To neither of your knowledge, Stan creaks the door open a hour later and finds you both, shaking his head fondly._ _

__“Jeez. It’s like 6pm and they’re flat out.”_ _

__He detangles your hands and picks you up, placing you on the bed at Ford’s side. You don’t wake– but Ford does, briefly._ _

__“Hmmm-muh… Stanley?”_ _

__“Their butt must’ve been numb from sittin’ there, I’m doin’ you both a favor.”_ _

__You rustle, turning on your side to face Ford, draping your arm across his chest._ _

__“… Fair enough.”_ _

__“You nerds and your shitty sleep schedules.”_ _

__Stan doesn’t hear Ford’s typical “Language, Stanley”, as he’s already passed out again._ _


End file.
